Worlds

Your eyes killed her.

Annie swore to be a level-headed soldier her father would be proud of, however, whenever you looked at her like that, she reconsidered her entire identity. In moments like these, as the soft dawn chased them down, it was more of a hindrance than anything.

Your hands fidget slightly, filling in the blanks your lack of words left, jogging your memory. Annie is wordless too as she watches you, head hung slightly lower than usual.

She should’ve been celebrating like her father or the other warriors. Yet, she stood at her doorframe like a scorned child. You clear your throat, though your cough is shallow as if you hadn’t been clearing it of anything at all.

“You’re really going,” you murmur. “That training went a lot faster than I thought it would.” Annie finally looks up and meets your eyes through blonde eyelashes and knitted eyebrows. In the harsh apricots of a dying summer sun, the fabric bundled around your arm is glaring. You catch her eyes wandering to it and re-adjust yourself awkwardly. “You’ll see me again.” She concedes, unsure of whether she was convincing herself or you. You smile, though Annie understood the lack of sincerity. “I know.” You respond. “You’re strong - miles stronger than anyone else in that group,” Annie nods. You mirror her strangely. They were your words. You were believing in them and you, of course, held yourself to them; why were you nodding with her as if you were accepting them too?

Silence plagues you again.

It’s unwelcome. It’s unwelcome because it’s entirely still in a time when Annie wanted nothing more than to scream or cry, to dig her nails into your skin so that you would understand just how scared she actually was and you would cry, too. Instead, she watches you swallow rhythmically as if to swallow a wave of building nausea.

It’s not a stranger to her; she feels it, too. Annie is suddenly hyper-aware of the ticking clock above the front door. Her eyes drift upward.

“I’m leaving soon,” she confirms. You seem to recoil physically. You’re suddenly far less composed than before, fists balling into tight balls beside your legs. “Oh.” You attempt to seem less viscerally bothered by her words than you were, but your body betrayed you because Annie could see the tears building in your waterline much clearer now. “Okay.” Annie reaches for something behind the door, fiddling with it awkwardly. “Sorry.” She murmurs. “‘S okay.” You reply. You sniff quickly. “I’ll have to get back before they realise I’m gone before the ceremony, anyways. Um. Good luck.”

They.

They’re your family. Addressing them like that was unpatriotic. Despite being free from the presence of any lecturers, Annie can’t stop herself from noting it. She scolds herself for thinking about you like that. You were nothing like her. You didn’t deserve to be held to these esteems; you weren’t a warrior. You were good.

She nods. “Thanks.” You kick up some dirt with the tip of your boot, wet eyes cast downward. If your superiors would’ve seen you like that, they would’ve deemed it an act of humiliation and scolded you. However, Annie does no such thing. Instead, she is silent. Her throat bulges with unsaid words taking the form of bile. She wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or apprehension or if it was a horrible mixture of both. It certainly wasn’t the excitement Porco described - it wasn’t pleasant.

She leaves those words unsaid as she watches you turn your back to her.

Gravel crunches under your house shoes as you walk, apprehension plaguing your posture despite how hard you attempted to look sure of yourself.

You stop in your tracks.

Annie squints, raising a pale hand to the sun. She had just about been able to make out the silhouette of your legs, running, when she suddenly feels your weight collide with her, knocking her slightly backwards. Your arms are around her neck, your face nuzzling deep into the crook. Wetness pools around the fabric of her shirt and it takes Annie a moment to register that they were from tears.

Sobs racked your already shaking body, though Annie realised that they were stifled in fear of anyone being awoken. She reaches to embrace you tighter, shutting her eyes as she presses her hand to the back of your head, gently locking you to her. “I don’t want you to go,” you whimper into her shoulder, and Annie’s resolve threatens to come apart. “I want you to stay here with me,” “I know,” She responds. “It’s my duty.” “It’s an unfair duty,” Annie is silenced. “It’s evil. What if they find you? What if they’re stronger? What if you die?” you cry, breaking the embrace to look at her head-on. "You'll be in trouble if anyone hears you," Instinctively, her voice hushes. Instinctively, Annie surveys the surrounding area for any officials quickly and frantically. Her eyes are wide, but Annie isn’t entirely sure why she was so taken aback; she had contemplated her own death every night since being elected. But hearing it from you, and like this was jarring. It was a stranger she wishes she didn’t have to face. But there you stood, in front of her, with two hands eclipsing the view around her. She couldn’t run or look away. She couldn’t fight death when it was looking at her like that. "I don't care anymore, Annie, I-"

You’re teary-eyed when she kisses you. It’s entirely foreign, albeit welcomed as you stagger backwards at the sudden impact. Your sobs are swallowed, instead translated into your lips as you embrace her again.

Annie doesn’t understand why she did it. Although, as she breaks the kiss, she is almost convinced that she had rid you of any mania.

She knew better.

As you pressed your forehead to hers and smile at her, although she returns a small simper and a word of assurance, she is entirely knowledgeable to just how temporary it was. In a few hours, she would be gone. You would be alone and you would remain so until she returned.

The clock continues to tick.

“We’re not friends. We were never friends.”

Since your return to Marley some years ago, those words persecuted you like a condemnation. The dismay they brought you was incessant, though it was nothing compared to the agony concealing it brought.

Reiner seemed to be handling it well. He could look his mother in her wavering eyes and recount the story of the potato girl with little faltering and he could sit before Gabi, Udo, Zofia and Falco to give impudent answers on the spot.

You were nothing akin to it.

Upon your return, you were no longer the dominant and capable warrior sent by Marley to scour Paradisians. You were a husk.

The way they gawked at you, whispering as you passed and lowered their voices to a soft, below-octave hum as if you could break if they spoke any louder told you everything about how they had seen you now. Now, alongside Reiner, you were shaken.

You were a child that allowed herself to be shaken by the horrors of a war you weren't prepared to fight in. Not alongside Reiner, anyway.

The fact that you had survived had been a testament to nothing. It meant nothing.

Without your frequent appearance past public displays of your status, you meant nothing. When you returned home, your facade crumbled. You were plagued with thoughts of what you had done to them - to him.

You slept and dreamt of the moment where Eren Jeager had confided in you and you looked him in the eyes and swore to cleanse the world of those beasts that killed his mother. You shared tender moments with him knowing that those beasts were your friends - that they were you. You nodded along as he spoke of a world where you could live together, peacefully, without Titans. Meanwhile, your true allies would be waiting for you that dawn to plan how you could ruin them more.

Whenever you dreamed (it wasn’t often) it was of him. Sometimes it would be of moments you weren’t present for - of the moment he heard your name when listing missing soldiers. Often, it wasn’t.

“Don’t touch me, don’t even-don’t even look at me! You took years of my life from me and I’ll never get them back. Do you understand that?!”

There it was again. It happened every time. You were on the branch, you felt the thick air heave through your lungs, yet you felt like you were drowning in it.

You knew the situation well now. He had no hands to fight you with. Ymir watched from beside him. If you looked up, Reiner would be stood tiredly, Bertholdt would be slumped against the trunk. “(Y/n), just let it go.” He would sigh, raking a large, scarred hand over his face.

You wished you listened. You never did. No matter how many times you’ve dreamed this dream, you never said what you needed to. You always said the same thing; “Eren,” it was always so tired. Your vision would always fade. “I wrote you a letter every day where I told you everything in vivid, drawn-out detail - I confessed to everything - but I couldn't ever show you. I couldn’t hurt my friend like th-“

“We’re not friends. We were never friends.”

A loud, echoing roar sounds from beyond the stage before you and you are momentarily struck from your daydream.

The declaration of war was upon you and, deep down, you knew something gruesome, something catastrophic would come of it. You weren't dull. Yet, there you sat, complicit. The crimson band around your arm burned your skin even under your coat like a crucifix upon the skin of the unholy.

You are grounded now, suddenly conscious of where you were.

The coldness of the night bit harshly your nose and ears, tearing you from whatever remaining stupor that had a hold on you.

Your eyes snap upward, toward the piercing flashes that now emitted from under the stage. People clambered around you, squealing and shoving their way past you. You angle your head to see what had caused such a commotion, but it didn’t take you long to discern the state of the audience.

Rubble, blood and fleeing townspeople flooded it.

From your spot behind the stage, you could see the resulting catastrophe clearly. However, it’s when you look up that left you staggering backwards.

Him.

It was unmistakably him, though the attack Titan looked much larger than you retained. It was much greater, now, because you were below it. You were at its mercy.

No longer, like before, were you in his territory. You weren’t the charlatan among others, he was. Because he didn't belong here. He was a threat to your people, your land; no longer to his own.

The fear made the damage look grim; it made him look massive.

Eren was in there.

You think of it and suddenly you are 15 again. Suddenly, you are brushing his hair, coaxing him to sleep through rough rain and thunderstorms. You suddenly feel his arms around you again, you feel the warmth from the night of your graduation.

You fought with yourself, biting back the feeling of familiarity, of recognition.

He wasn’t your friend anymore; he was the enemy now.

You didn’t want to fight him.

You just watched him kill what seemed to be hundreds of your people, and you were certain he had brought his own people with him, but you couldn't find it within yourself to do what you knew you must.

Someone grabbed your arm, and you momentarily tear your eyes from the familiar beast.

“Ms. (L/n)! You’re safe!” You don’t recognise the woman speaking to you, but she grasps your sleeve as though she knew you well. Her hand was coated thickly with crimson. A child weeps behind her dress. She weeps something about having lost her daughter to the rubble and she begs for you to do something.

Your expression hardens as she’s whisked away by a guard, who orders something about getting to safety. You watch her disappear into a large crowd as you search your pocket for the familiar coldness of your switchblade.

Eren Yeager had killed your people.

He had, in this stunt, mowed through thousands at this point and surely would do what he could do to make his destructive way to your friends.

You flick it along your palm.

Ymir had never really felt helpless since her youth. Even then, in those moments, she felt as though she had been ruling, that whatever she could do would bring praise and gratitude and triumph. It was only after she had been adjudged when she realised that the reason she sought after that feeling of authority for so long was because of just how dependent she had actually convinced herself she was. 

Becoming a god was the loneliest feeling in the world, but solitude brought a power not many had; it brought independence. She never had to worry about others. 

She often found herself watching her fellow cadets when they returned from battle. Ymir would often follow as they broke down, crumbling to their knees in wracked sobs upon hearing of the demise of their loved ones. She would listen to the hums of commiseration from other soldiers or watch as they would help the mourning fighter to their feet and lead them away from others' scrutinising eyes. She wouldn't pity them. The feeling of sympathy was foreign to her.

Ymir had been fighting for a grand portion of her life now. She had held herself to those same beliefs since her first day of training, so she was specifically surprised when she had taken such a liking to you.

She fought it for a while. Whenever you would sit with her at lunch, she would make an effort to seem uninterested when you spoke of your day. When you stumbled during training, she would correct you, but would mask whatever tenderness that found her voice with a sigh or a comment implying that you “need to suck it up”. 

Yet, despite how she pushed and strayed from you, you remained a constant in her life of inconsistencies. Eventually, you were the closest to what she could call a friend. 

Ymir ignored how, whenever you would patch her wounds or link to her on cold nights or how often you would sleep in the same bed, she was far too mercenary to label you as something other than a friend. Even that was stretching it. 

Though, in moments like these, Ymir wished that she was raw enough to let you know. Because, in moments like these, she would be terrified to misspeak. 

You wouldn’t fight often. Not like this. 

You had mentioned having to “get up early” off-handedly during dinner when excusing yourself from the table. Ymir asked about it and you mentioned a scout that had been injured, whom you volunteered yourself to replace for an outer-walls mission. You said it all so casually. Ymir couldn’t grasp any sarcasm in your voice or crack in your authored facade as you brushed through your hair in the mirror of her chambers. She didn’t see you make eye contact with her once. You spoke to her coolly about how happy you were to finally be able to sleep, about the dinner and how it was cold that day, about how Jean had snuck some of your apple at lunch that day.

Ymir just stood in silence, considering and rejecting things to say in response. 

“Were you gonna tell me about how you’re leaving tomorrow, or was I just supposed to wake up without you and put it together myself?” She spoke before thinking. You hesitated, hovering over your cupboard.  “Ymir, it’s not a big deal,” you finally sigh, running a hand through your hair the moment it’s freed. “I said it was just a capture mission. Hange said we won’t go far-“  “You can't go.”  You narrow your eyes. You had now frozen in your tracks completely; no longer pacing around the room to place things in their correct spaces.  “I’m not a child,” you speak gently, as if to a rabid dog. The blaze in her eyes was enough to pardon it. “I don’t have to ask your approval to work. I don’t need you next to me,” you deride lightly, insignificantly, as you turn your back to her. You didn’t plan to sound so dismissive.  “Are you seriously being this fucking petty right now? You could die out there,” Ymir, however, fully intended her venomous rhythm. She towers over you, if not just in her tone alone. “You’re being stupid. You know you're not strong enough to fight with that squad.” Your breath hitches in your throat. Ymir regrets her words immediately, but she doesn’t waver in her stance. “What the fuck is your problem?” you sneer. “You insist on how little you care about me, but as soon as I do anything without your permission you yell at me?”  “That’s not what this is about, (y/n)-”  “Then what is it about, Ymir? Why are you so scared?”  “I don't give a shit about what happens to you! I'm just-” Ymir catches herself before she can finish her sentence. “No, I-”  “Exactly,” before she can correct herself, though, you are biting y our lip the way you do when you're biting back tears and you are in front of her. “Move. I need to go to bed.” 

She is wordless as she steps to the side and allowing you to pass her. It isn't until she hears your footsteps down the hall when she speaks. 

“If you come back, I won’t be here.” She hears you stop. Ymir doesn't expect you to come running to her, arms open and folded clothing discarded into a pile on the hallway floor. She isn't entirely sure why she's digging such a hole for herself - she doesn't mean what she's saying - of course she doesn't, she adores you, so why is she so set on pushing you as far away as she possibly can? Why does she feel that she needs to?  “Good.” you reply. The footsteps continue, then you are gone.

You are gone for three days. 

Ymir, at first, didn’t count the hours.  She stewed in her angst alone for a grand portion of the morning without you; she dutifully avoided talking about whatever mission you had left for at the table that morning. 

Despite herself, Ymir had to eventually confront her weakness after the third consecutive “Are you okay?” Of that day that she wasn’t doing as good of a job of hiding her worry as she had thought. 

She thought she didn’t seem too bothered when your name was mentioned at the breakfast table. 

She thought she didn’t look too obviously intrigued when, 30 hours since you left (she swore she hadn’t counted), she heard Captain Levi murmur something about a retrieval squad. She thought she didn’t sound so desperate when she attempted to bring it casually up in conversation, yet she couldn’t fight the cracks in her voice and she couldn’t stop herself from wringing her hands over her wrists in worry when she thought nobody was looking. Helplessness went from being a stranger to a thorn at her side in a matter of hours.

It had been the dawn of the fourth day when Ymir was awoken by a creek by her door. She remained stiff as she listened to light footsteps approach her bed, but she softens when she hears you. When she sat up, unsure of whether you were actually there or if she had just been consumed by grief and began to hallucinate, you winced. 

She blinks. 

There are no words exchanged. Ymir debates speaking, though her body moves before she can and, in minutes, you are sat in the bathroom and she is kneeling in front of you.

Ymir isn’t certain (it seems like she hadn’t been certain about anything at all for the past week) why she wasn’t crying. She isn’t sure why she’s so terrified to touch you, or to speak, or to maintain eye contact for longer than a millisecond. 

You were in frightening shape. Had she not been petrified to talk, Ymir would be swearing under each breath.  Blood still seeped from your open wounds, cascading in small, splitting rivers of crimson down the side of your face. It had likely been far too long since you had fought any kind of titan, Ymir thought. Their blood would've been long since steamed. It was your blood. You must have noticed her hesitance as she wiped it, gently, dreading that she would uncover another wound, because you broke the abundant, pregnant stillness

“They lost two scouts.” “Oh.” Ymir responds. An unfamiliar feeling settles uncomfortably in her gut. “I’m sorry.” You nod, then you are silent again. 

Ymir takes a moment to resume her conscientious work. 

There is no obligation between either of you to say anything more. Your eyes are fixed downward, resting heavily on Ymir as she squints at the cap of some kind of disinfectant. She’s biting her tongue.  “I didn’t mean anything I said,” Ymir spoke to you suddenly and without looking you in the eyes. You’re thankful because it told you that you weren’t the only one too frightened to do so. “I do give a shit about what happens to you,” You laugh insignificantly, shaking your head. “I thought you died. I thought I lost you and the last things I said to you was that I wouldn’t be here, but I will. I’ll always be here.” She is desperate, rambling until she realises it and lulls herself. 

You would say something dismissively comforting had it not been for the silence Ymir’s hand brought as it raised to your cheek and gently brushed a stray tear away. It is so small and trifling, yet it is gracious and fragile and kind and it means the universe to you. 

“I know,” you respond.  You don’t need to hear a long-drawn, significant plea. You don’t need it because, truthfully, you knew you likely wouldn’t get it from Ymir in the first place.  However, as she guides you gently back into her bed, engulfing you in the white sheets, and places a small kiss on your forehead, something settles within you. 

It was a feeling one would associate with the moments after receiving an apology; it is warm, tender, relieving. 

You were home. You were safe. 

You were loved.